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The Wages of War, Is Pain

I am fighting a losing battle against a formidable foe. Every morning I enter the arena and don my battle gear. Coveralls. Safety Glasses. Leather Gloves. I am not ready to enter battle. My foe? Metal. Steel. Ferrous or non, I do not discriminate. Neither does it.
But try as I might, and fight as valiantly as I do, it is an uphill struggle. See metal is harder than skin. It always wins. When I think victory is in site, I raise my grinder above my head, and bring it down, cutting disc slashing the steel to ribbons, leaving naught but destruction in my wake, it lashes back. With flying steel shards, and razor sharp edges. I counter-attack with my grinding disc. I smooth off those rough edges, and my safety glasses and gloves protect me from the flying shards. I grin in victory. I am proud of my achievement. I have won! What a wonderful day. That is until I throw that piece of steel away and it slips from my grip and slams into my shin. Or I slide the newly cut piece into place and pinch my fingers. Or I tighten the nut too much and my wrench flys off smashing my knuckles. And that bitter-sweet taste of defeat enters my mouth, and I know that I have been beaten again. Another battle lost.
But I continue on. Valiantly striding forward, everyday losing just a bit more skin, getting a few more bruises. I carry on. Why, in the face of all this pain, against all odds, do I keep going?

Because I AM MAN!

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